


candlelight

by Sriracha



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:30:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sriracha/pseuds/Sriracha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Advent calendar (n): a calendar containing small numbered flaps, one of which is opened on each day of Advent, typically to reveal a picture appropriate to the season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. advent calendar

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to your OT4 holiday countdown, hosted by salem “sriracha” chrolloneon, sponsored by the silent hill franchise! what do you mean i’m not being sponsored. what do you mean this ship isn’t canon. get out of my house
> 
> dedicated, of course, to the meme team: you all followed me down into the pit, and for that i’m more grateful than i can ever tell you. 
> 
> this one’s for you.
> 
> (written 11/3)

“I couldn’t find the advent calendar,” Eileen moans, slumping into the kitchen dramatically; she makes a beeline for Anne, who’s sitting on one of the barstools reading, and leans against her back with a huff. “I thought I packed it up when I moved, but it’s gone.”

Despite Eileen’s initial excitement over the season (starting at midnight on November first, when she turned the radio to the Christmas music station and left it there), the apartment’s only partially decorated – there’s a wreath on the outside door, and someone put a cheap, tinsel-shedding garland up in the hallway, but for the most part things are decidedly un-festive so far. Eileen’s been a whirlwind of unpacking decorations all day, bringing piles of tangled Christmas lights and carefully bubble-wrapped ornaments into the living room as she unearths them; the excavation seems to be over, though, and the advent calendar magically vanished from existence.

Murphy sticks his head over the back of the couch, where he’s been fiddling with a long string of colored lights. “Buy a new one?” he suggests, frowning, still struggling to unknot the lights in his lap as he watches Eileen.

“It’s gotta be special, though.” Eileen considers this, gazing thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “We could make one, maybe.”

Henry pops up beside Murphy like an afterthought. “Um, if you’re gonna make one,” he says, a little shyly, “I have an idea.”

They line twenty-five unlit holy candles up on the kitchen counter, and surround them with tinsel (stolen from the garland in the hallway – no one will admit to putting it up, but Anne does look a little sheepish when Henry starts sweeping up all the excess tinsel) and shining glass ornaments. After a small squabble over who gets to do the honors, Anne lights the first one, and the four of them crowd around to watch the candle burn down; Eileen declares it the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, and a tiny smile ghosts across Henry’s face as he squeezes her hand just a little tighter.


	2. sweaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heating is expensive, but sweaters are forever.

It looks like a bomb went off in the living room – dozens of frayed ends of yarn litter the carpet, small enough that they’d be hard to see if they weren’t so colorful. Murphy frowns when he notices, and notices, and notices again, eyes flickering as he spots more and more of the mess: “I just vacuumed,” he says to the apartment at large, not upset but slightly exasperated.

“Did you say something?” Henry sticks his head out from the laundry room, hands curling around the doorframe so he doesn’t overbalance. Eileen emerges from behind him, not looking up but instead smoothing her hands across her front delightedly: she’s got a floral sweater on that Murphy hasn’t seen before, soft and slouchy with a wide neck.

That might explain the yarn pieces. “You were knitting?”

“Oh, yeah.” Henry looks at his feet, embarrassed. “I, uh. Heating’s expensive, so I made sweaters. Yours is–” Retreating briefly back into the laundry room, he reemerges with a gray sweater in his hands. Murphy can see the embroidered edges of bird’s wings balled up under Henry’s fingers. “You don’t have to wear it.”

Murphy strips the crewneck he’s wearing off, ignoring Henry’s soft noise of shock and Eileen’s loud laugh, and takes the sweater from Henry’s unresisting hands. “Of course I’m gonna wear it,” he says as he puts it on, voice muffled by the fabric as he fumbles with the arm holes. The sweater’s soft, with a line of birds stretching from the hem all the way to his heart; “This is beautiful,” he tells Henry, sincere. “I didn’t know you could do this.”

Henry crosses his arms tight across his stomach in embarrassment, then relaxes them, blinking up at Murphy through his bangs and smiling just a little. “I could teach you, maybe.”

“I’d love to learn, but I think you have vacuuming to do first.” Murphy raises an eyebrow teasingly; Henry’s answering laugh comes out in a sigh, but his face glows all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: eileen’s sweater is flowered and pastel, anne’s (not shown, obviously) is blue gray and white like the ocean. henry’s, which he is still working on at the time of this piece, isn’t done enough to be anything yet, but he’s thinking stripes.
> 
> a special nod here to lain "phollie" kurapunk, who turns 22 today - happy birthday, darling, we love you very very very very very very very much......
> 
> (written 11/10)


	3. parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We don't believe in Santa Claus, but we do believe in his float.

Eileen’s mittened hand keeps slipping out of Murphy’s, but she looks back every so often to make sure he’s still there, eyes big and bright under the wool hat she’s wearing. “Any idea when the parade starts?” she yells, muffled by the noise of the crowd surrounding them: it’d been her idea to go, but as usual her pre-planning was slim to none.

The sidewalk's packed, but the street's still empty. “I’m guessing not yet?”

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” She rolls her eyes as they weave their way through the throng, trying (and failing) not to smile. “Okay, smartass, do you at least have the poster with you?”

“I do.” Murphy lets Eileen pull him along, tipping his head back to look at the sky. His breath puffs out white above him, and even with all the light pollution here he can still see stars. The city feels infinite at night, like if there was anywhere he could fall off the radar completely it would be here. He and Anne, and Henry and Eileen – if there was any safe place for them, it would be here.

Eileen stops abruptly in front of a work light, eyes fixed on the end of the street even when Murphy accidentally runs into her back. “I think it’s starting!” she says, whipping to face Murphy with excitement burning in her face. “Get the poster out, hurry!”

It takes both of them to unroll it: Eileen painted it, Murphy lettered it, Henry cut out the decorations for the bottom, Anne blew glitter onto it and adamantly claimed that her contribution tied the piece together. The poster’s of a sunset skyline with the words “HI ANNE AND HENRY” scrawled over it, large enough both to hide Murphy’s face from any cameras in the area and to let Anne and Henry know that, parade or not, they’re being thought of.

Murphy holds it up as high as he can, waving it a little as the first float rolls by. Eileen holds his arm, and he holds the poster just a little tighter when he feels her bounce on her heels, pulling him down and keeping him grounded here in the last safe place in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: the two of them did end up on TV after all. henry pointed them out; anne pretended not to notice when eileen saw the cameras and started waving, but she totally noticed.
> 
> (written 11/14)


	4. christmas cookie day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December fourth is National Christmas Cookie day, and of course Eileen knows that.

“We aren’t very good at this,” Henry says, defeated, as he brushes floury handprints onto his pants.

“Maybe not,” Anne says grimly, “but we’re damn well not about to give up.” She cracks another egg into the bowl, handing its shell to Henry with the gravity of a surgeon’s scalpel.

The kitchen’s covered in cookie sheets and flour, every available surface scattered with dough, cookie cutters, and assorted holiday sprinkles. It’d been Eileen’s idea: “December fourth is national Christmas cookie day,” she’d told the household with an expression that clearly meant that December fourth was going to be observed properly.

“You guys are doing fine!” Eileen chirps from the counter, where she’s watching Murphy dutifully cut out gingerbread man shapes from a flattened piece of dough. “Can’t really fuck up Christmas cookies.”

“Even if we accidentally tripled the recipe?” Anne asks, tone as dry as her expression (which loses some of its sting thanks to the flour streaked across her face). “Because we did.” There’d been a mix-up with measurements – it was Murphy’s fault, so he'd been relegated to cutting duty while Anne and Henry played frantic damage control.

Eileen steps down from her chair a little smugly, taking the finished sheet of cookies from Murphy and strolling to the oven. “Less of a fuck-up, more of a happy accident. Not like we won’t have eaten them all before the end of the season.” She swipes her hand across the counter and pats Anne’s back as she passes, visibly fighting a laugh at the smudgy white handprint she leaves behind.

“Anne–” Murphy gestures vaguely, meeting Anne’s indignant look with a barely-suppressed smile. “Uh, you’ve got a little something on your back.”

Anne’s face borders on screaming fury. “Can it, Pendleton,” she hisses, but swipes blindly at her back anyway, leaving more and more streaks – Murphy has to put his head down and laugh into his arms when Henry tries to help her and Eileen sneakily leaves handprints on the back of his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: like eileen was gonna ignore an excuse to make christmas cookies. as for me, by the time i post this i’ll be right on the cusp of exam week, and the only holiday cookies i’m going to get are decidedly pizza roll shaped. 
> 
> they aren’t cookies at all. they’re pizza rolls.
> 
> (written 11/10)


	5. dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne remembers a recipe.

Any time Anne cooks, the entire apartment makes it their business to hang around the kitchen. Cooking isn’t exactly Anne’s strong suit, but she’s better at it than pretty much everyone else in the household – Murphy’s not terrible, but Eileen burns practically everything she touches, and Henry’s dietary choices are still reminiscent of a college kid’s (Anne caught him eating ramen with Chex Mix in it once). Tonight is no exception: the second Anne starts opening and closing cupboards looking for ingredients, Eileen appears out of the hallway, eyeing the operation with marked interest.

“So what’s this?” Eileen asks when Anne takes a package of hamburger out of the freezer, idly kicking the counter as she leans on it. “I don’t think you’ve made this before.”

“Old family recipe.” It’s nothing special, basically just hamburger, salsa, spaghetti sauce, and pasta, but it’s the first thing Anne ever learned to cook, taught to her by her father over years and years of after-work dinners. She bites her lip almost unconsciously as she pours the sauce into a bowl, trying not to think about it; he’d worked late almost every night, but he’d made it a point to have dinner with her regardless, letting her help with the cooking and praising her efforts even when she screwed something up.

Until recently, she hadn't had anything like that in a long, long time.

There’s a clatter beside her as Eileen picks up the tray of hamburger Anne’s left out to thaw, loud enough that Anne’s startled out of her thoughts (luckily not startled enough to drop the mixing bowl). “D’you need any help? If you’re doing pasta I can get water boiling, too.”

Eileen bumps Anne’s hip with her own as she sticks the hamburger in the microwave, humming something under her breath. Her enthusiasm makes Anne homesick – but she’s starting to get used to the fact that once again, for the first time in a long time, it’s not in a bad way. “You've got to promise not to burn it,” Anne says, and unconsciously stirs the mixing bowl a little faster at Eileen’s answering laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: the recipe mentioned here is adapted from a real recipe that i almost sobbed my eyes out over one morning: strongman pasta asciutta, taken from robert oberst’s MUNCHIES article of the same name. the only other ingredient is sausage – if you’re going to make it, please don’t skip the sausage, it’s probably very important.
> 
> (written 11/4)


	6. photos

Getting pictures of people sitting still is hard, and barely worth it considering how stiff the photos turn out: Henry doesn’t like the rigidity of Murphy on the sofa, or Anne’s nervous grimace whenever she finds herself with a camera in front of her. The pictures he treasures the most are candids, the ones where Eileen’s laughing and everyone else looks exasperated, Anne in the middle of talking with her hands mid-gesture, Murphy making faces at him before realizing that the camera’s on. He would frame them if he could.

He thinks about it now, as everyone jostles on the couch in front of him while he sets up the camera’s timer feature. Eileen had insisted on a photo to send back to her family, and Murphy and Anne reluctantly agreed: there were people to send holiday cards to, other Silent Hill survivors they’d met by chance, and they’d never taken a formal group picture before anyway.

Murphy’s elbow digs into Anne’s side; Anne squishes herself against Eileen and stares holes into Murphy; Eileen entwines her arm with Anne’s and reaches her leg over to kick at Murphy’s knee. In a minute they’ll all be stiff and still, faces frozen in smiles for the picture. “I think it’s ready,” Henry offers quietly, and presses the shutter button.

“Ten seconds?” asks Eileen, scooting into Anne to make room for Henry to sit down, and he nods.

There’s a second of silence, and then “Pendleton, I swear to God,” Anne growls from across the couch – Murphy’s still all elbows, and seating is tight on the tiny Ikea relic. “Pull your damn arms in–“

“I can’t, Anne, this is the best I can do.” Murphy shrugs, which pushes Anne harder against Eileen. Anne swells with rage and shoves her shoulder against Murphy, hard enough that he’s dislodged from the chair and sent half over the arm, just as the shutter clicks.

Eileen’s mouth is half open in a delighted cackle; Anne’s face is lit up with revenge. Murphy’s expression is only partially visible, but even through the blur his eyes are wide with shock. Henry himself is half-motioning towards the camera, trying to warn them: _It’s going to go off._

This picture, Henry decides, is the best picture any of them have ever taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: henry, much like the author, screenshots every snapchat he receives. how many blurry photos of murphy’s face with anne yelling in the background does he have? how many pictures of eileen’s feet high kicking into the sunset can he even fit on his phone? it’s probably an impossible number at this point, because – as someone once said – love congas all. 
> 
> even storage capacity.
> 
> (written 11/11)


	7. catch cold

Cold and flu season had swept through the apartment complex like a plague the second December rolled around: almost everyone on the floor had been or was currently sick. Henry and Murphy, so far, had been spared, but Eileen wasn’t nearly as lucky. When she’d woken up that morning, she’d been croaky and hoarse, and in a panic (“I’m gonna get everyone sick!”) she’d quarantined herself in the bedroom and attempted to kick everyone else out.

She’s currently bundled up on the bed, red-nosed and miserable, surrounded by used tissues; Anne skulks back and forth behind her, every so often handing her another tissue. “Seriously, I’m fine,” Eileen reassures her weakly before sneezing into her hands. “Gross. It’s nothing I can’t handle, really. I don’t want you to catch this.”

“Think I already caught it, Eileen.”

“You what?” Eileen turns to Anne with a tissue to her nose, scandalized. “You should be resting, then, right?”

Anne shuffles. “I’m fine, it’s just a runny nose and a cough. You’re worse off than I am.”

“No, seriously, come down here.” Opening her blanket like wings, Eileen gives Anne a meaningful look. “Here’s the deal: you take care of me, I’ll take care of you. If we’re lucky the whole house won’t get sick.”

Hesitant, Anne finally relents, coming around to sit down next to Eileen. “I heard this was a twenty-four-hour kind of thing. So what? Do we just sweat it o- ough-” Muffling a sneeze into her arm, she dodges Eileen’s knowing look with all the grace of a cat pretending that it totally meant to fall off of whatever it was climbing. “Sweat it out.”

“Do you have a better plan? Besides, like, ignoring the fact that you’re sick too.”

“I’ll heat up soup later or something,” Anne mutters, ignoring the question. “You should probably try to sleep, you’ve been up since five.”

A nap does sound like a pretty good idea, actually. “Only if you’ll stay,” says Eileen, and beams despite her runny nose when Anne sighs and stretches her legs out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: bundle up when you go outside. i wrote this, and then got the worst cold of my fucking life the very next day, so take it from me: no one is safe.
> 
> (written 11/11)


	8. gingerbread house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those who didn't learn shit from the past are doomed to repeat it.

“Did we learn nothing from the Christmas cookies?” Murphy sighs, staring down at the pieces of gingerbread that Eileen’s shoved into his hands. Eileen pretends to consider this, then very seriously leans forward and smears frosting on the end of Murphy’s nose.

“Pendleton has a point,” says Anne from the table as she pipes shaky frosting lines onto the roof of the gingerbread house Henry’s assembling. “Ah, fuck.” Frosting shoots out of the bag, covering the table and Henry’s shirt in equal measure; Henry gives her a mournful look, which she returns with a sigh.

Eileen leans her arms on the back of Anne’s chair. “It’s a collaborative effort,” she reassures her, using one finger to smooth out Anne’s work into something resembling roof shingles. “You’re doing fine! You’re better at this than you think you are – just don’t squeeze too hard.”

“Hmmgh.” Anne squints at the gingerbread house, resentful.

The table tilts briefly as Murphy sets his pieces down and pulls a chair up. “This is kind of poetic,” he says in the kind of tone that means he’s fighting a laugh, and Anne tenses, ready to yell. “Building a house together, you know what I mean? It’s sweet.”

What to say to that? A little taken aback, Anne deflates; she didn’t really expect genuine sentiment. Murphy does start laughing, though: “It’s,” he repeats, one hand over his eyes as he rattles the table with his laughter, “sweet.”

“Oh, my God,” Henry says, very softly, and puts his face in his hands.

Red mist clouds Anne’s vision. Before Murphy can say anything else, she snatches the frosting bag off of the table and squeezes as hard as she can, crushing the bag in her fists and sending icing all over Murphy; Murphy’s laugh cuts off with a startled choke, and she slams the bag down, triumphant. “No more fucking memes, Pendleton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: they decorate the gingerbread house with their surplus christmas cookies. henry and his massive sweet tooth decimate the gingerbread house within the week.
> 
> (written 11/18)


	9. dryer sheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflections on laundry.

Pushing hair out of her eyes for the fifteenth time, Eileen leans into the washing machine to scoop up an armful of clean clothes, twisting with her nose buried in warm shirts; laundry day wasn't always such an ordeal, but four people in a household makes for quite a bit of folding.

Dryer sufficiently emptied, Eileen hefts the laundry basket into her arms and stumbles a little under the weight. A couple socks fall out of the basket as she leaves, and she grabs at them with her toes, flinging them out towards the kitchen and giggling when she realizes Anne’s caught her – “Could you get those?” she asks, dropping her load onto the couch and pulling out a couple pieces of clothing from the pile.

This hoodie is Murphy’s, she can tell by the size; a couple of Henry’s shirts come next, soft under her fingers, hard to fold. Anne’s jeans, a couple of her own tank tops (wait, when was the last time she wore these?) and a skirt that, apparently, someone’s been embroidering (so that’s what Henry was being so secretive about the other day). A bunch of underwear, which Eileen doesn't bother to fold but instead slings at an oblivious Anne’s back; a striped sweater that can only be Henry’s, which she folds very carefully, smoothing out wrinkles as she puts it down.

“Need help?” Henry’s in the hallway, shuffling in slippers – he’s clearly been asleep, as evidenced by his bedhead. He yawns as he approaches, hand brushing the couch’s arm for support.

“Good morning, sleepy. Don’t worry about it – it’s my turn to do laundry, it’s no big deal.” Eileen tries not to grin: Anne’s shoulders are significantly more hunched than before, like she’s kicking herself for not offering help. “Unless you really want to, I've got it covered.”

Henry falls in beside her, shaking the lint out of one of his nightshirts with his face scrunched up. “There’s so much laundry,” he says, almost wondering, eyeing the pile.

“Comes with the household, I guess.”

“It’s nice,” he mumbles to Eileen, now quiet enough that she has to strain to hear it. She understands what he means, though, and she clutches Anne’s nightshirt just a little tighter, bumping her shoulder against Henry’s and folding in quick, neat turns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: mail your laundry to me and i’ll do it for you. no guarantees that i’ll get it back to you on time, though – i put my laundry off until i physically can’t put it off any longer.
> 
> (written 11/18)


	10. fire escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten days into December and no one thought to decorate outside?

Murphy’s breath puffs out in stiff white clouds as he winds a string of lights around the fire escape railing. With the sun angled like it is, it could almost be hot out here; the metallic chill of the railing is a constant reminder of the weather, but Murphy’s sleeves are rolled up regardless, and he periodically stops to ruffle heat out of his hair with a sigh.

“Mind holding this in place for a second?” he asks Henry, who’s got window swag in his hands and a cigarette between his teeth. “Think I’m about ready to try plugging it in.”

The sun’s just going down behind the buildings in front of them. Light beams off their window as Henry finishes hanging the swag, and he blinks rapidly as he comes over to take the string from Murphy. “That was fast,” he comments, still blinking; he watches Murphy swing back over the windowsill with the plug in hand and bumps his hip against the railing in time with the breeze.

Eileen’s voice rises from inside, unintelligible but hopeful-sounding enough that Henry knows she’s talking about the decorations. Her voice blends with the sounds of wind and traffic from below, warm and comforting, and he takes a second to take it all in as he blows smoke out towards the streets.

Lights flicker on under his palms, green and red and gold against his fingers: “They’re on!” he calls through the window, and Murphy yells back something that’s less of a word and more of a celebration. They’re beautiful, he thinks, leaning his elbows in between the lights – the kind of thing that isn’t even worth taking a picture of, because nothing’s going to capture the exact feeling, the softness of the background noise and the sun going down.

“Are you coming back in?” Murphy asks from behind him. He’s got a ridiculous grin on his face and one hand extended towards Henry, and Henry takes it without hesitation, stubbing out his cigarette on the warm brick wall as he follows Murphy inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: a loving tribute to phollie’s fire escape, and also kind of a gift to harper themself. i’m borrowing heavily from the harper aesthetic for this one, so here’s looking at you, kurapunk.
> 
> (written 12/1)


	11. snow

Rain speckles the windows, wet screens blowing against the glass and distorting the view. Anne isn’t looking – rain, understandably, makes her nervous. Henry and Eileen have their quirks about certain things, too, but neither of them are bothered by weather, so they’re out grocery shopping even though it’s technically Anne’s turn.

Murphy’s here, too, half-facing the window, every so often turning just a little to examine what’s outside: he’s braver than Anne is, considering that she’s got her back turned and her shoulders hunched at the thought of the rain alone, and she’d resent him for it if she wasn’t secretly glad that someone was keeping watch.

There’s a hush over the house that would be uncomfortable for anyone but the two of them. Eileen, especially, fills silence up with sound like no one else can, but after everything Anne’s been through there’s something weighty about being able to sit here with Murphy without talking. They have a mutual understanding, almost – we’ve been through hell, we both made mistakes, we’re lucky to be here and we don’t have to talk about it anymore.

“Oh,” says Murphy finally; Anne looks up, expression sharp just in case there’s something wrong, but Murphy doesn’t look worried. He rises from the couch instead, giving her a slightly crooked smile as he passes her on his way to the window: “It’s snowing.”

Anne turns around. Fat flakes fall lazily out the window, bright against the grayish backdrop of brick buildings and sky, endlessly more friendly than rain. She gets up, presses one hand against the window and peers outside; her hand tremors against the glass, but she flattens it. Murphy’s shoulder grazes hers, and she snorts just a little, appreciative but reluctant.

“Guess it is,” she says. Quiet wraps around the two of them like a blanket as they stand there, watching the first snow of the season fall high over the streets below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: it’s apparently supposed to snow down at elon soon. personally, i hate snow, but i won’t try to pretend like it’s not beautiful.
> 
> (written 12/3)


	12. poinsettias

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December twelfth is National Poinsettia Day, and of course Eileen knows that.

Red flowers line the walls when Anne walks in: the floor’s a swimming sea of red and green, and she raises an eyebrow at the plants, not entirely sure how the house could have filled up like this in the time it took her to go out and get groceries. “I’m back,” she announces, setting her bags on the counter with a frown. “And these are…”

“Poinsettias?” Henry’s on the couch, and he rolls over to blink at Anne, almost apologetic. “They’re fake. Eileen brought them out of storage because it’s poinsettia day.”

“Sounds like Eileen.” Trying not to kick over any of the pots, Anne joins Henry on the couch, still eyeing the new decorations, and digs in the couch cushions for the book she’d stashed there earlier. “Kind of a pointless holiday, but not a huge deal.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then “Actually, I know a little about what they mean,” Henry offers, his voice unsure, leaving the statement hanging almost like a question.

Anne puts the book down, open across her lap, and turns to look at Henry. “Tell me?”

“Um, there’s a legend in Mexico that a, a poor kid with nothing else to give,” Henry pauses, fumbling with his fingers, “put weeds on an altar as a gift, and the weeds turned into poinsettias. The flower itself means good cheer, I think.”

This is news. “Does Eileen know the legend?”

Henry smiles faintly into his lap. “I think that might have something to do with why she likes poinsettias so much.”

When Eileen comes home, Anne isn’t there anymore: Henry, who’s been sworn to secrecy, says nothing, but when Anne eventually comes back with a live poinsettia and presents it without a word to Eileen he presses his face into Murphy’s shoulder to hide his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: according to teleflora, the poinsettia, also known as noche buena or mexican flame leaf, symbolizes mirth, celebration, good cheer, and success. all of those things are things that these four could use a little more of.
> 
> (written 11/15)


	13. ornaments

“Can’t believe it took us this long to decorate the tree.”

“Well, to be fair–” Eileen nudges a box of ornaments towards Anne’s foot, stretching upwards to hang a twisting glass ornament on one of the taller branches. “It was already kind of decorated, but it wasn’t personal, you know? Ornaments should mean something.”

The tree rustles as Anne reaches too high, overbalances, and stumbles into the greenery. “So what does this one mean?” she asks, brushing pine needles off her front and holding out the one in her hands for Eileen to see: opalescent dark blue painted like stained glass, mixing with soft reds and greens and yellows.

Eileen looks shifty. “Funny you ask. I made that one.”

“It’s beautiful.” Anne holds it up to the light, turning it around and around. At Eileen’s answering, embarrassed laugh, she swivels to look at her, a little sharply: “I’m serious.”

“I know. That’s the ornament I made for you.”

There’s a gentle choking sound as Anne backpedals furiously. Eileen muffles a laugh into her upper arm. “Some of the new ones are store-bought, but I painted pretty much everything in that box. There’s an ornament for everyone – when I was growing up everybody in the family had their own ornament, so I figured I’d carry on the tradition.” Glass clinks gently as she steps away from the tree to admire her handiwork and eye Anne (who’s staring at the ornament in her hands like she’s about to combust) at the same time. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Yeah.” Clearly embarrassed, Anne stands on tiptoe to hang it up. Her face is still red, and Eileen has to bite back a smile: she’s shining as bright as the ornament in her hands, a flustered piece of art silhouetted against the light coming in through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: next christmas they’re going to have stockings embroidered with their names. once that happens, it’s a downhill slide towards matching sweaters and caroling around the fire.
> 
> (written 11/20)


	14. movie night

Movie nights are almost always a disaster on principle – no one can ever agree on a movie to watch, first of all, and Anne sighing her way through the opening scene of _Titanic_ is funny at first but gets very grating very quickly – but everyone’s sprawled in front of the television anyway, a plastic bowl of semi-burnt popcorn resting in between them as Murphy flips through channels hopefully. “Rudolph’s about to come on, if we wanna just watch that,” he suggests, and Anne lets out an audible groan just as Eileen starts to agree.

“Who has the patience?” Anne says defensively when Eileen gives her a defeated kind of look. “Too many names to remember.”

Kicking the couch sullenly, Eileen huffs a little. “The other reindeer aren’t that important. You’ll figure it out as you go along.”

Henry, who’s been steadily moving the contents of the popcorn bowl into his lap, pauses mid-bite to consider this. “You know Dasher and Dancer and…”

“Cupid?” Murphy offers.

“Cupid might be one of them.” Pensive, Anne crosses her arms and leans back. “Wasn’t there a Herman?”

“Herbie,” Eileen says, exasperated, “was the elf. Do I seriously need to go through the entire song for you? You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen–”

She’s a little off-key, but she’s passionate. Murphy, starting to feel bad for her, tries to help: “Donald and Cupid and – ah, shit, Blitzen and Blitzen–” He stumbles over himself, and Anne actually laughs at that, ignoring Eileen elbowing her in favor of making fun of Murphy’s attempts. “Don’t be a dick, Anne.”

The remote’s been commandeered by this point; Henry’s got the remote in his hands and a mountain of popcorn in his lap. “There’s nothing else on,” he says, barely audible over the fight going on next to him. “Do we stay on Rudolph?”

No one answers. Henry puts down the remote and settles back into the couch as the opening sequence starts and Anne desperately tries to muffle her laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: you know murphy and henry and anne and eileen…
> 
> before anyone asks, yes, i do know all the reindeer’s names. don’t underestimate me.
> 
> (written 11/15)


	15. in the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the prince of any failing empire knows that everybody wants / to drive on through the night if it's the drive back home.

The streets are a mess of slush after last night’s snowstorm. Light glints dully off the mounds of half-melting snow, making Murphy squint, pulling his coat tighter around him as he weaves his way through the crowded sidewalk. He doesn’t like being out during the day – there’s a chance someone will recognize him as the missing convict presumed dead after that prison bus crash, so he has to wear a hood and act as inconspicuous as possible. Nothing’s happened so far, and he’s lived here for a respectable amount of time, but it still makes him nervous.

Home – not here, but Brahms, before everything went wrong – was never this busy, didn’t even have the capacity to hold a crowd half this size. Carol liked to visit the shops downtown after her shift ended, so Murphy would get Charlie bundled up and take him down to meet her, and the three of them would admire storefront decorations, Charlie on Murphy’s shoulders and Carol holding his hand beside him. Carol would’ve loved the city, he thinks, wishing he hadn’t. His mind brings back memories of her, lit up like a Christmas tree, radiant in the gray snow as she craned her neck at all the tall buildings around her.

A buzz from his pocket startles him enough that his feet stutter over themselves, earning him a concerned look from the young woman walking past him. He digs for his phone: Henry’s texting him asking if he’s going to be home soon. “Almost there,” he sends back, shaking his head a little dazedly. Thinking about the past for too long doesn’t tend to end well.

The reply’s almost instantaneous. “Look to your left.”

Murphy furrows his brow, but does as he’s told, one hand coming up to shield his eyes. His eyes scan the building – their apartment building, actually – until he sees what Henry wants him to see and actually laughs out loud. Henry’s out on the fire escape with Eileen, who starts dancing the second she sees him; Henry gives him a little wave, and he waves too, wide and sweeping.

This found family isn’t anything like the one he left behind – nothing ever could be, not really – but coming back to them still feels like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: some les mis references got cut, unfortunately. silent hill downpour's pretty reminiscent of les miserables, though, isn't it? both of them are about convicts who committed a crime for a good cause who get chased to RIDICULOUS lengths by a devilishly good-looking cop. both of them are set in revolutionary-era france. both of them involve the main character realizing that they were the bogeyman all along....
> 
> (written 12/15)


	16. stockings

Not having a fireplace isn’t a problem for the other eleven months of the year – it’s not practical, or even possible, really, and nobody really thinks about it anyway – but as of now it’s the only thing on Eileen’s mind. “We could put the stockings in the hallway?” she suggests to the air, wringing her hands and pacing back and forth in front of the Christmas tree. “God, I don’t know. I hate rush decorating.”

She stops pacing and pouts at the air. Henry makes a soft, concerned noise from the kitchen. “We could make a paper fireplace,” Eileen continues, biting her fingernails thoughtfully. “But how long would that take?” There’s a beat, and then Eileen hangs her head with a defeated huff.

This isn’t their first Christmas together – it’s their first Christmas with Murphy and Eileen, but they’ve celebrated together every year since they left Silent Hill. Eileen forgetting part of the decorations is pretty much tradition at this point. She doesn’t ever give up, though, which Henry can’t help but admire – it’s not a quality he really possesses. He knows she’s half the reason he made it through Silent Hill, knows that the possibility of her still being alive after what Walter did to her was what pushed him to keep going.

They’re alive because of each other, he thinks, chin on his arms.

“I have an idea,” he says finally, hesitantly. Eileen whirls to face him, mouth half-open with a partially-formed sentence on her tongue. “Remember in Ashfield how people would put candles in the windows?”

“We could stick the stockings on the windows and put candles underneath!” Eileen finishes, voice bright; she claps her hands and does a tiny giddy spin that has Henry pressing a smile into the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and Henry wants to mirror the sentiment, but rises to help her dig for suction cups in the junk drawer instead, brushing his hand against hers to convey all the words he’s still not sure how to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: i'm in my best friend's house at the moment - she's got a huge fireplace but no stockings. i might tack a sock up to mark my space.
> 
> (written 12/16)


	17. night light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Murphy can't sleep.

When Henry can’t sleep – which is still often, but happening less and less these days – he likes to go sit in the living room in the dark and watch cars scurrying along the roads down below. The darkness makes him feel small, but the light from outside the windows is almost comforting: the city is full of reminders that the world around him is alive, cold and distant through the windows but moving like blood through veins.

Nightmares sent him out of bed this time, memories of locked doors and ghosts in the walls making him nervous enough to fly out to the living room to check that there was still nothing there. The panic’s subsided, but he’s still got a window cracked open, one hand cold on the sill as little flecks of snow drift in with the wind.

There’s a scuffing sound in the hallway, and Henry jumps a little, tired but not too tired to press himself into the back of the couch. But it’s just Murphy, he realizes with a tiny, relieved sigh, the spring in his chest uncoiling: “Hey, Hen,” says Murphy sleepily, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes as he makes his way into the living room. “Thought I heard you leave. Can’t sleep?”

“No.” Henry uncurls just a little.

“You’re not the only one.” The lighting in the room turns Murphy a pale blue, edges of his face made soft as he considers the Christmas tree. “Brace yourself, I’m turning the lights on.”

He flicks the switch for the Christmas tree, and Henry’s almost breathless for a second: the whole room’s glowing, bathed in warm light like a hundred candles all at once. Murphy smiles sleepily as he sits down next to Henry, taking his hand and squeezing it gently.

The city streets are forgotten. Henry thinks about the warmth of Murphy’s body next to him, the little world contained inside this apartment, and leans his head on Murphy’s shoulder. “Actually, I might fall asleep,” he mumbles, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Murphy’s smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: to all of you out there, sleep well.
> 
> (written 11/5)


	18. sledding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody's very good at this.

“I’ve never done this before,” Eileen admits, twisting the back of Anne’s parka in her hands as Anne shifts the sled. Nervous, she scratches her feet in the snow, knees bumping Anne’s back: “I mean, I get the idea and all, but aren’t I going to fall off?”

“Hope not.” Anne twirls her fists in the leather straps for support. “You ready?”

“Maybe?”

Murphy and Henry are already down the hill. Neither of them fell off, Eileen can see Henry at the bottom holding the sled against his chest, but she doesn’t have much faith now. She opens her mouth to tell Anne that she’s maybe reconsidering doing this just a little right as Anne kicks off – her speech turns into a drawn-out “Agh”, and she tightens her grip on Anne’s waist so hard that she feels Anne cough underneath her.

The trees around them start to blur as they pick up speed, melting into green and white that makes Eileen a little dizzy. She leans back hesitantly, not letting go of Anne’s waist, to stare up at the sky: her breath trails out behind them, and she whips her head back to watch it so hard the sled jostles. “This is amazing,” she calls, half a question, but it’s lost in the wind and she laughs breathlessly into Anne’s back.

Anne’s good at steering, almost better than Eileen would’ve expected. Her shoulders are tight – her entire body’s tight, actually, and Eileen loosens her grip just a little to make it into more of a hug. Looking forward is more than a little vertigo-inducing, though, and Eileen doesn’t like looking at the end of the hill (she can see Murphy waving, though, which would be nice if he wasn’t coming on so fast), so she presses her face into Anne’s shoulder and closes her eyes.

There’s a strange moment where everything spins, then Eileen feels herself falling, rolling across the snow and spluttering as she feels it get into her jacket. She opens her eyes and Henry’s above her, one hand out – she turns to her left and Murphy’s pulling Anne out of the snow by her armpits, and she lets Henry pull her up, dazed and dizzy and full of awe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: there’s something really special about being able to write in your friend’s house, even when we get distracted and play skullgirls so hard my keyboard breaks for awhile.
> 
> (written 12/18)


	19. skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Silent Hill, Murphy finally learns that he has a center of gravity.

Murphy’s pretty decent at balancing, all things considered – he got through Silent Hill’s thousands of unstable bridges and fallen trees, despite the fact that he had no idea how to drop his center of gravity then. Ice skating isn’t much different, he thinks as Eileen wobbles on his left arm and Henry nervously clings to his right shoulder. “You guys okay?”

“I, I think I’m gonna break my ankle,” Eileen grits out, wide-eyed with concentration. She’s padded up enough that falling shouldn’t hurt her much – Murphy can barely see her face in between the hat she’s pulled down to her eyes and the scarf covering her up to her nose, but she’s clearly nervous. “But other than that, I think so.”

He eyes Henry, who hasn’t said anything yet. His face is less terror-stricken than Eileen’s (Murphy recognizes it as a peaceful acceptance of death) and his feet are barely moving. “You’re pretty good at this,” Henry says, dropping one hand to his side hesitantly before letting go completely and coasting a little. “Can you, uh…”

“Do you need me to show you how to move? You’re doing fine,” Murphy assures him, wrapping one hand around Eileen’s waist to support her. “Eileen, can you stand on your own?”

“No way.” Eileen throws her arms around his neck – he can feel her shivering through her layers. Letting go of her would be cruel, honestly, considering her track record of unfortunate accidents. Anne was supposed to help, but she’s far ahead of the three of them, weaving through people standing still like a fish. “I can try to, I mean, I–“

This doesn’t need to be fancy, Murphy just needs to show Henry how to skate. “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Eileen’s eyebrows come down just as Murphy lifts her, and she half-shrieks, leaning in to make sure she doesn’t get dropped. “Alright, if you want to move you just kind of step – here, watch, I’m not great at explaining.”

Henry’s mouth falls open. Eileen giggles, delighted, and kicks her feet lightly as Murphy glides forward. “Is the lift optional?” Henry says through a sliver of a smile, and Murphy spins, raising his eyebrows mock-sternly and skating backwards away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: personally, i think henry has bad knees, so a skate date might not have been a great idea. anne can probably lift him though.
> 
> (written 12/19)


	20. eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's a little tipsy and no one can sing.

Henry accepted his lightweight status long, long ago, way before even Room 302, back when he was a nervous mumbly freshman at Ashfield University – it got a little harder to stomach when he and Eileen moved in together, since she could (still can) drink him under the table, but facing the fact that life deals some bigger drinks than others wasn’t too terrible. Less terrible now, he thinks, watching Murphy spill eggnog on his pants, that there’s a more notorious lightweight in the house.

“It shouldn’t just be seasonal,” Murphy’s saying very seriously to Anne, who’s sipping her own eggnog with a squint that clearly means she’s trying not to laugh. “Year-round caroling.” He doesn’t tend to drink – Henry enjoys wine, and Eileen and Anne have a makeshift liquor cabinet under the sink, but Murphy’s staunchly non-alcoholic a majority of the time – so the rare occasions when he does are treasured moments.

He starts to hum under his breath, the baritone grumble eventually forming into half-melodic mumbling; he has trouble carrying tunes on his best days, and tonight’s rendition of ‘Deck the Halls’ drops notes like alcoholic snowflakes falling. Anne, all humor gone from her expression, glowers into her mug, but Henry’s stomach actually swoops when Murphy’s voice cracks on a high note – Murphy’s voice is more honest than ever, almost embarrassingly so, and Henry thinks he’s never been so in love in his life.

Slightly dazed, not sure whether to blame the flush spreading down his neck on the alcohol or Murphy Pendleton, Henry taps his fingers on his cup in stumbling time with Murphy. “See the blazing Yule before us,” Murphy almost warbles, to Anne’s clear distaste, “stripe…I don’t know the rest of the words…”

“Strike the harp,” Henry starts, overly conscious of his wisp of a singing voice. Murphy looks over expectantly, and he falters: “and join the chorus,” he ends a little hesitantly, but Murphy’s face lights up like the sun and there’s no way he can blame the red in his face on the alcohol now.

“Not you, too,” Anne protests, but she’s forced to retreat when she ends up drowned out by Murphy’s enthusiastic refrain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: writing this drunk would’ve been the ultimate advent entry - alas, i’m just late and sober.
> 
> (written 12/20)


	21. subway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is subjective.

Public transit is a necessary evil these days - living in the city makes traveling by car difficult, so Murphy and Anne brave the subway together, Eileen trailing behind them attached to Anne’s hand like a nervous balloon. Eileen won’t talk about her time in Silent Hill, but subways make her sweat like Anne’s never seen, so Anne doesn’t ask questions when Eileen kicks her feet up underneath herself and presses into Anne’s side.

“Let’s not do that again,” she says instead, addressing Murphy, but Eileen huffs into her neck and she rolls her eyes. “I don’t like musicals, I’m sorry.”

“It was festive,” Eileen protests. It’d been her idea – like most things they’ve done this season – but to her credit everything up until the play had been fine: all three of them dressed for the occasion, and Anne can’t complain about Murphy finally brushing his damn hair. Eileen’s beautiful in her dress, too, which is nothing to sneeze at.

The train lurches as it starts moving, and Eileen’s voice stutters in her throat for just a second. Unsure of what to do, Anne pats Eileen’s hand and watches the fluorescent lights of the station fade away behind them. “We’re six stops from home?” she asks Murphy, who mumbles something vaguely affirmative, already starting to doze against the window behind him. “Hey, Eileen –“

“I’m fine,” Eileen says, voice tight. “I mean – I’ll be fine.” She reaches for Anne’s hand again, though, and Anne lets her entwine their fingers, squeezing her sweaty palm close for just a second.

The scenery behind them’s changing; the train makes a shuddering ascent and they’re up over the streets, bright windows of buildings flashing past as they fly by. Eileen’s breathing steadies out against Anne’s neck, and Anne has the strangest feeling of comfortable exhaustion – she leans her cheek against the top of Eileen’s head and squeezes her hand again, barely aware of the sleepy public around her anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: no smart comment tonight, i’m running late!
> 
> (written 12/21)


	22. morning

Weak, watery sun slants through the bedroom window and across the still figures tangled up together under the sheets. Eileen’s still dreaming, feet twitching and bumping against Anne’s legs every so often; Anne’s not awake enough to open both eyes yet, so she stays where she is, gazing out at the gray window with her cheek against Eileen’s soft heartbeat.

Eileen tends to be a noisy sleeper: she twists and turns all night, steals blankets, mumbles and coughs right when Anne’s found the perfect sleeping position on her stomach (even when Anne knows it’s coming it still scares the shit out of her every time). Overall she’s hard to share a bed with, but Anne’s slept with better that ended up much worse. All sleep habits aside, compared to some of the people who’ve been in her life – Anne tightens her jaw before she can think about it, shifting her head into Eileen’s chest to block out the sunlight instead.

There’s a second of stillness before Eileen kicks her legs out in a slow stretch, pushing Anne backwards as she dislodges herself from the covers. Anne’s forced to hold the covers to keep them from getting completely thrown off the bed. “Morning,” says Eileen through a yawn, grinning blearily at Anne.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a big deal.” Eileen cracks her fingers significantly less dramatically than her first stretch. “You sleep well? You look kind of sad.”

Embarrassed, Anne’s face turns stern. “Nothing I can’t handle.” She rolls over again, facing away from Eileen – her chest’s heavy, but it’ll pass, she knows. The past is hardest to deal with when she’s vulnerable like this.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle it.” Eileen still sounds half-asleep, but she sits up anyway, one hand petting Anne’s hair absently, affectionately. “I’m not even saying you’ve got to talk about it. If I can help at all, though, I will.”

“I’ll be fine,” Anne says; and “now that you’re awake,” she doesn’t say, but hopes Eileen understands all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: im SOOO late
> 
> (written 12/22)


	23. wrapping paper

“Do you know how to do this right?” Murphy sighs to Henry, hopeless, as he stares down at the crumpled mess of wrapping paper in his lap. It’s a little late to start wrapping now (nearly midnight on the 23rd – he’d procrastinated on finding gifts all month, and it’s only just biting him in the ass), especially since everyone else is done already, but just handing people their presents lacks a certain something. He’s lived a long time, learned a lot – too much, maybe – from everything he’s done, but he still can’t wrap a present without it looking like it’s been hit by a train.

“I can try,” Henry offers, sitting down in front of Murphy and holding his hands out for the paper.

Murphy watches Henry fumble with the brightly-colored paper, admiring the way his pale hands contrast with the red. “There’s a pair of scissors on the nightstand if you need them,” he says, but Henry’s already started folding the jagged edges of the paper down, smoothing them into something presentable (the pun’s almost too easy, but Murphy silently appreciates his own joke anyway).

The finished package doesn’t look neat, per se, but it does look covered – taped-up rips line the edges of the folds. “I just put all my presents in bags,” admits Henry, turning the box back and forth in his hands to inspect it.

“Better than anything I could’ve done myself. Thank you.” Murphy takes the box back, but freezes before he can put it down. “Wait, what did you just wrap?”

“A model car set, why?” Murphy stands up without a word, box still in his hands, and shoulders the bedroom door open with an expression of stone. Henry, confused, blinks at him as he disappears into the hallway. “Hey – Murphy?”

It’s only later – when he sees ‘To Henry’ written in Murphy’s blocky handwriting on the most bedraggled-looking present under the tree – that he realizes he wrapped his own present this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment – i’ve wrapped nothing yet. i probably won’t ever wrap anything. if anyone complains about it, their gifts are mine.
> 
> (written 12/23)


	24. dance

“You should go to bed.”

Eileen starts at the sound of Anne’s voice, blinking sleepily as she lifts her head off the counter. “Shit, did I fall asleep? What time is it?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s nothing.” Stretching, Eileen slides off the barstool, pushing the clutter on the counter aside – ribbons, her sketchbook, a couple of pencils that clatter as they roll to the floor. “I was just trying to get some stuff ready for tomorrow. Can’t believe the season’s already over – time flies, huh?”

The radio’s playing softly; outside, the glow from far-off streetlights illuminates freshly falling snow. “You’ve done a fantastic job,” Anne says honestly, not looking at Eileen as she rests her hand on the counter next to the lit advent calendar.

“I had a little help.” The song on the radio changes to something slow and soft, and Eileen shifts, drumming her nails on the counter. “Anne, before I sleep–“

 Anne turns to Eileen, whose expression might be embarrassed if she had it in her to be embarrassed. “Will you ring out the season with me?” she asks, holding a hand out to Anne as an invitation. “I can’t really dance, but I mean, I love this song–“

She shuts up when Anne takes her hand. “I can’t dance either,” says Anne, and there’s a second of silence before both of them laugh: Eileen relieved, Anne sounding almost surprised at herself.

The radio croons as the two of them clumsily waltz across the kitchen, making the candles flicker and jump every time they pass. There are a lot of things Anne wants to say – “Thank you”, “I love you”, “I’m glad you’re in my life” – but she stays quiet instead, spinning in her socks as Eileen mouths the words with her eyes closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: the lights on my tree, i wish you could see / i wish it every day...
> 
> (written 11/11)


	25. wake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment: this concludes the advent calendar! we’ve shared so many laughs, so many tears, so many barely concealed declarations of love for murphy pendleton coming from under my figurative pen. wait, what?
> 
> i hope you’ve enjoyed the ride – it’s been a labor of love, both for the pairing and for the people who’ve followed me into it. once again, this piece is dedicated to the meme team: I l*ve you, I l*ve you, I l*ve you.
> 
> so to you, to yours: have a safe and happy holiday.
> 
> (written 11/11)

Morning brings the smell of bacon frying from the kitchen; Henry stirs at the promise of food, bleary-eyed as he fumbles for his slippers with his feet. “Good morning,” he yawns once he’s made it to the hallway, running a hand along the wall for support; Murphy’s the only one in the kitchen, and he waves a spatula at Henry in greeting, his other hand busily stirring a pan of eggs.

“Did you sleep? You’re the first one up,” says Murphy, putting the pan down and leaning against the side of the fridge to smile at Henry. “There’s hot water in the kettle if you want tea.”

“Oh – yeah, I did sleep, thank you.” Henry gets up to grab a mug, but Murphy gets there first, and he settles back into his seat trying not to flush too much. “Um, merry Christmas.”

“Same to you.” Murphy sets a mug in front of Henry and leans in to kiss his forehead at the same time, and Henry has to ball up his hands to keep them from shooting out involuntarily. He stares into the mug, embarrassed, as Murphy turns back to the stove with an obvious grin.

There’s a shuffle in the hallway, and “Morning, Henry, Pendleton,” Anne says, brushing past Henry to get to the coffee machine.

“Merry Christmas to you, too.” Murphy looks like he’s about to tease her, but hands her a mug instead, meeting her slightly-confused-mostly-vicious stare with a shrug. She still looks like she might fight him, even as she pours herself coffee, but it’s a holiday – there’s a brief truce, at least until presents are opened. “Where’s Eileen? You’d think she’d be up by now.”

“I think she was up late. I went to bed at one or so and she was still out here.” This isn’t news to Henry – he’s lived with Eileen for so long that her holiday sleep patterns are common knowledge, and Eileen ends up sleeping in on every holiday she’s excited for – but Murphy raises an eyebrow, interested.

“So do we wake her up?”

The three of them sneak into her and Anne’s bedroom; Eileen looks so peaceful when she sleeps, sprawled out and open-mouthed, that it’s almost a shame to wake her, but the look on her face right when she opens her eyes to see Murphy in mid-jump onto the bed makes it all worth it.


End file.
